Nightmare
by RougeAngleOfSatin
Summary: Madara doesn't like to sleep. Hashirama/Madara. Trigger warnings inside.


A/N: Written for day one of the **hashimadaminibang** on tumblr, for the theme "dreams." I welcome constructive critcism. :-)

**Triggers: **Non-graphic **rape,** **gore**.

* * *

Madara doesn't like to sleep. He never much has, and believes he never will. It is unfortunate then, that of all the troublesome bodily functions he has shed, _this_ is the one that remains to inconvenience him.

He shifts, feet scuffing against the mossy stone floor of his current refuge. A ruined temple for a forgotten god, no one comes here save criminals and madmen. Or ghosts, like him.

It's too soon to move out in the open – the valley they carved is too fresh, the dummy corpse he left in Tobirama's chamber of horrors still open to incisions and scrutiny. The scar on his chest still aches so much that it slows his journey considerably, though it has been of great help in keeping him awake for the past six days. So he waits, now fixing his single working eye on a moonbeam that spills through a gap onto the stone by his feet, and mutters under his breath the mechanics of every jutsu his Sharingan has ever copied to try and stave off sleep.

He gets as far as the bug-based techniques of the Aburame clan ("The kikaichū…are un…unaffected by gen_jutsu_…due to their simple nervous systems…") before he can hold off no longer and oblivion descends.

* * *

Every time he sleeps, Hashirama kills him. Sometimes it plays out true to life with a stab in the back. Other times he breaks his neck, so that when Madara wakes he sits up rubbing it, still hearing the reverberations of snapping vertebrae. Once he'd decapitated him, and the highest Madara could see was his ankles as Hashirama looked down on him and spoke.

That's the commonality all these dreams share. _Those words_. Those cold words that made what had been theirs into Hashirama's alone:

"_No matter what happens I will protect our… no, __**my**__ village. I still believe that protecting the village is the best way to protect people, shinobi, and children…! Anyone who tries to harm it, whether they are my friends, siblings or my own children… I won't forgive them._"

They're all Hashirama ever says. Even in the dreams like this one.

Hashirama pushes Madara down flat with a hand around his throat and water rushes into his ears. (More trickles down the crag but the water level never increases. It won't either. This is the height it was at when he died.) Madara thrashes against him, clawing at the hand, but it's like trying to hurt stone. Hashirama tightens his grip until spots dance before his eyes and he feels giddy and lightheaded with the approach of death, then the pressure slackens and spreads; mokuton branches hold him down. Hashirama crawls over him, and in accordance with dream-logic, they are both suddenly naked.

"No matter what happens," Hashirama says as he parts Madara's knees, "I will protect our…no, **my**—"

Madara gasps. His eyes sting, and not from the suddenness of the penetration.

"—village."

It continues on like that, with Hashirama talking in that voice so disconnected from what he's doing, the act so different from what it had been, no longer pleasurable but punishing. Even so Madara arches up against his restraints, nails digging into his palms as hard as he'd use them against Hashirama if he could.

He hates this. Hates _him_.

Hashirama's fingers glide up his chest, cool and assessing until they find what they seek. The wound is red and angry and blood starfishes out of it when Hashirama digs his fingers in, widening it. Madara freezes, ignoring the way his body jolts beneath his _(murderer's) _partner's thrusts, and fixes his eyes on Hashirama's face.

Hashirama's fingers slide in and out obscenely with his movements, red and slick. Madara bites back a groan when they work their way deeper, tunnelling through flesh, and then bone, the entire hand disappearing into his chest…

His heart isn't easily taken. Hashirama directs his full attention to it, yanking on it the way he might a stubborn weed until it tears free, spattering them both with gore. Madara screams.

Hashirama's expression is dispassionate as he raises Madara's still-beating heart to his mouth. For a moment it seems he might bite or lick it, but all he does is press his lips against the glistening muscle in a soft kiss. Then with a clever sleight of hand, the heart is gone.

"What have you done?" Madara croaks. "That doesn't belong to you."

Hashirama's smile is gentle beneath the blood as he goes against the established script for the first time. "Doesn't it?"

* * *

Madara jerks awake drenched in cold sweat and experiences a moment of panic at sensing Hashirama's chakra close by, until he remembers. He probes the scar gingerly with shaking fingers, though he knows it was just a dream.

Just a dream.

_It goes to show there's no justice in this world_, he thinks, _if_ I _am the one haunted by _you.


End file.
